Promises of an Addict
by BrianaDwnCullen
Summary: Bella and Edward are lovers and best friends. Bella is Edward's safe place when his past creeps up and starts to turn to drugs. He makes her a promise to stop the drugs. Can he keep that promise? What would you do for the one that you're so in love with? Do you leave, or do you stay and try to help them? Is Bella strong enough to choose one? AH/OOC/BxE.
1. Chapter 1

**I do not own Twilight; I do, however, own this plot.**

* * *

"_Baby, she-she came back. I—I need them, B; I can't handle this!"_

* * *

"You're so high," I say, laughing.

Edward grins.

"I'm high on you," he says with a laugh.

I smile and pull back only to have him pull me back into him.

I arch a little into him and lean my head back against him, snuggling in and he leans back against the huge cave-rock. I observe everyone; Jake, Nic, Jess, Liam—everyone is having a good night, including Edward and I.

* * *

"I'm gonna go get a drink; do you want something?" I ask Edward as I start to walk to the cooler.

He nods and asks for a wine cooler.

I grab a Coke and Edward's wine cooler, and head back to the cave-rock where Edward was a minute ago; he's not there now, though. I peek inside the cave and see Liam with Edward, handing him something. Edward shakes his head, and says something. I know what's in Liam's hands, and I'm proud of Edward.

* * *

"I'm so in love with you," I tell Edward later that night while lying in bed.

He shifts onto his side to face me, and half-smiles.

"Really?"

I nod.

He pulls my face to his and gives me one of special kisses; long, deep, and just pure Edward.

* * *

I wake-up in the middle of the night, and notice that Edward's side is cold and empty. I'm worried, so I get out of bed and go downstairs. The backdoor is open, and I can see Edward sitting on the porch steps.

He only comes out here when he needs to think.

Or, when _she's _made a reappearance.

I walk outside slowly and sit down next to him; he doesn't even notice me, but his body jumps.

"Edward?" I whisper. "What's wrong, baby?"

I put my hand on his shoulder and he looks at me finally.

And I immediately wish that he hadn't, because I see that he's high.

"You're high," I say, dejectedly.

"I'm s-sorry, sweetheart," he says, sad. "I just . . . I needed something, and I didn't wanna wake you."

I bite my lip. "Don't do it again, please? Wake me up, I don't fucking care! I love you, but please."

Edward nods and I wrap my arms around him.

"I promise. Never again." He kisses my head.

**Four Words that No-one can Keep**

* * *

"You're high," I say, defeated.

Edward's eyes are pinpoint, but that's because we're in the light of his kitchen. They would be dilated otherwise.

"Baby, please," he begs.

I shake my head. "You promised. . ."

"I'm sorry, I'm so damn sorry," he says through a hoarse whisper.

I scoff. "Right."

"You're angry," he says, nodding. "What can I do, baby?"

I shake my head again.

"No. I'm fucking disappointed is what I am! You're just another person who can't keep a damn promise."

I take the short walk upstairs to his room where my bag is at, grab it, and walk back down. Edward's leaning against the island, elbows on it, head in his hands.

I go for the door, not bothering to stop the tears.

Let him see them.

"Where're you going?" he asks, panic rising in his voice.

"I'm done," I tell him. "I told you before; you do this again, and I'm fucking done! Well, guess what: I'm done."

"You—you love me, though," he says.

There's tears in his voice, too.

I nod.

"Yeah, I love you so much that it hurts! I can't fucking watch you slowly slip away—slowly kill yourself. Edward, you promised! I would've—I would've helped you in any way I could! But no, you didn't come to me; you went to _them_. Well guess what, I guess you have a new lover now."

I walk out the door, hearing Edward calling my name; I don't answer him.

* * *

It's been a month, almost two months since I've seen Edward. I talked to his sister, Emma, today. She's told me that he's been shit ever since. I told her that I'm sorry, but it's ultimately his fault, his choice.

* * *

"Get off me," I groan to Josh, the friend that I've been staying with.

My phone is ringing, and Josh won't let me up to answer it; he sleeps like the fucking dead.

Finally, I push him off and reach for my phone, and see that it's Edward. My heart hammer-pounds in my chest, wondering why he's calling.

He never calls in the middle of the night, unless it's urgent.

I press Talk.

"Hello?" I say quietly.

"B-baby," Edward's voice tear-filled voice seeps through the line.

Panic begins to build in me.

"Edward? What's wrong?" I ask quietly but quickly.

"Baby, she-she came back. I—I need them, B; I can't handle this!" Edward says through tears.

I immediately know whom he's referring to; his bitch-slut of a mother who left Edward for a younger guy when he was fifteen.

Panic takes over and I get out of bed, trying to find my way in the dark room.

"Edward, listen to me; I'm gonna come over. Don't touch them, please? Sweetheart," I beg quietly.

He sniffles. "I—I—fuck, baby. Please."

I find Josh's keys and slip on my flip-flops and walk out side to his car, and start it.

"Do you wanna stay on the phone with me while I drive there?" I ask him, pulling out of the driveway.

"No, I don't want you driving and talking on a phone," Edward says.

"Are you sure?" I ask him.

"Yeah, I'll be . . . OK 'til you get here," he tries to reassure me.

* * *

I get to Edward's and walk inside—I still have a key to the house—and find Edward at the island, and memories of that night from a month ago flood through my mind. I push through them as Edward meets my eyes.

Emma's right, he does look like shit.

"Baby," he says; the relief is palpable in his tired voice.

I go to him and wrap him in a hug, enjoying the warmth of his body wrapped around mine when he hugs me back. He hasn't showered in a day, and he smells like just Edward; plus, there's scruff on his face; I love it.

* * *

"She—she started saying the same shit as always; telling me how she wasn't 'ready' to be a mother, a parent, and just wanted to live her life; she's ready now, though."

We're lying in his bed. It's 2:30am, and we're wrapped around each other.

His head is on my chest, and I stroke through his hair gently.

"I'm sorry, Edward," I whisper.

He sighs.

"I know. . ."

It's quiet after that for awhile.

Until . . .

Edward lifts his head to me as I'm going into Lalaland.

"What's wrong?" I ask, alert.

He shakes his head.

He brings his face close to mine; so close that our lips touch.

"Kiss me," he murmurs against my mouth. "Kiss me, please, baby."

"S-stop calling me those names," I plead quietly.

"No, It's what you are; you're mine, you're _my _baby, _my _baby girl, B. I'm not gonna stop, even—even if you do. Please, please kiss me; I fucking need you, baby."

So, I do.

It's what happens when you're in love with a person who's damaged from childhood, and while it's killing you slowly, you'd do anything to help the person you're so in love with.


	2. Chapter 2

It's early morning quiet as I lay still, listening to steady breathing. His right arm is wrapped around me, holding me in place, like he's afraid I'm going to get up and leave while he's sleeping. I shift a little, trying to loosen his grip on me; I want to go downstairs to get a drink of something, and that isn't the easiest thing to do at the moment. I finally free myself and quietly make my way downstairs, leaving his door ajar. While I'm there, I drink some water and try to clear my mind. My phone makes me jump nearly out of my skin when it vibrates from where I left it earlier, on the kitchen island. I pick it up and answer it.

"What?" I say quietly.

"Where the fuck is my car?" It's Josh.

I snort. "Well, obviously you know, or else you wouldn't be calling me at 5:30!" I whisper-yell.

His huff-sigh irritates me.

"I need my damn car! How am I supposed to get to work, hmm?" he asks.

I shrug at nothing.

"I needed it, and I'm sorry, but you were sleeping and it was an emergency," I explain.

"Crap—what happened? Are you alright?" he rushes out.

I smirk. "Yeah, yeah, I'm fine." Sort of. "Edward called at 2:00am, needing me."

Josh groans.

"I thought you hated the guy?"

I roll my eyes. "No!"

"Jesus, sorry," he apologizes.

"Don't say that. But, don't worry; I'll return your precious car in one piece, okay?"

"Fine."

We talk a little more, and then he tells me that he has to find another way to work. I apologize, but I'm not really all that sorry, and I'm sure he knows that. I set my phone back on the tiled counter and take a gulp of water.

"B?"

I hear Edward's voice and look up, seeing him near the stairs. Even in the half-lightened room, I can see the worry on his face.

"Yeah, it's me; what's wrong?" I ask, whispering.

"Thank God," is all he gives me.

It's a stupid question to ask, because I could have just guessed his problem: he woke up and I wasn't there. His navy-blue t-shirt is wrinkled from sleep, and his dark hair is messed up from my fingers.

"Do you want anything?" I ask as he steps behind me.

He slips his arms around me, and I can't help the smile that appears on my face; he knows I've always liked this position.

"No," he says simply.

We stand like this for a few moments, until I suggest going back to bed.

He agrees, and I swear that he checks behind him to make sure I'm still following up at least five times before we make it to his bed.

When we lay down, I take the side closest to the wall so that I don't fall out of the bed, and Edward doesn't argue at all; he wastes no time in wrapping his arm just under my boobs, and when I turn over to face him, his wraps it underneath my arm, around my back.

"Edward," I say, trying to get his attention.

"Yeah?"

"I'm not going anywhere; I'll be here," I say softly.

I can't leave him, not again. It hurts too fucking much.

He nods, but I can see that he still doesn't believe me.

* * *

**One week later**

_Wherever You Will Go _pumps from the stereo, and Nic and I hang back to talk, while I watch Edward talk to Liam.

"I still don't think it's a good idea that he continues to talk to Lee," Nic says, referring to Liam.

I gulp the rest of my pink lemonade.

"He's gonna do what he wants; he knows where I—we—stand," I say.

"I think he's addicted to whatever he's using," she comments.

I don't bother telling her what he uses (which is painkillers).

"I think so too," I admit. "He's addicted to numbing; to the feeling that you get when you're high, and you get high to try to forget your shitty issues for awhile."

She nods.

I see Edward end the conversation and look around, probably for me most likely.

I start to move away, and Nic gives me a look.

"Don't tell him anything if he comes over, please!" I half-beg and go to the other side of the cave-rock, where I'm still in earshot but he can't see me.

Sure enough, I hear Edward a moment or two later. . .

"Hey Nic, have you seen B around anywhere?" he asks.

"Nope, sorry," she tells him.

I peek around and see him running a frantic hand through his hair, an anxious look on his face.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck," he says.

I feel like crap doing this to him, but it proved me right; he didn't believe me when I told him I'd stay.

I decide to put him out of his misery and come out of hiding. The relief on his face is evident when he sees me.

I grab his hand before he can say anything; I drag him away from the crowd and into the house.

"Umm, what's going on?" he asks.

I shake my head as we take the stairs and then get into his room.

"Go . . . sit down," I order him, slightly out of breath.

He eyes me warily but does as I asked.

He sits on the edge of his bed and I go over to him, pushing him back a little until he scoots until his legs hit the edge. I straddle his lap.

"Edward, look at me," I say gently.

He does.

"Do you trust me?" I ask him.

He nods. "Of course."

I nod. "Do you believe me when I tell you something?"

He hesitates this time, but nods nevertheless.

"Yes," he says.

I nod again.

"You love me, right?" I ask.

"Of course—baby, what're you getting at?" he asks, worried.

I sigh and bring my hands to his face, holding it in place so that he can't move it away.

"Then please, _please _believe me when I say that I'm _staying_; I'm _not leaving_, I promise," I plead with him.

He bites his cheek and averts his eyes away from me.

"Edward," I say softly, trying to make him look at me.

He won't, so I do the one thing that'll definitely get his attention; I lean down and kiss him. He kisses me back, but it's quick and nothing like his usual ones; I pull away and sigh.

"Talk to me, Edward, please," I say.

He's silent as he combines our hands, entwining our fingers together.

"I . . . I wanna believe you," he says quietly, looking down. "It's just, you left before; you did leave, and I remember that—I can't fucking erase it, baby girl."

I clear my throat.

"Please, please try to understand _why_, though, Edward. I left because I was hurt, and upset, and wasn't thinking clearly—all I knew was that my boyfriend had gone straight to drugs instead of coming to me like he'd promised he _wouldn't _do. I'm sorry that I walked away, walked out, though. I'm so in love in with you that it hurt and still hurts to know that you turned to drugs to get through the pain, though," I reveal to him.

His eyes widen a little.

"I'm sorry baby, I'm sorry." He pulls me closer by my butt and holds me. "I love you, and I don't ever mean to hurt you; I just . . . they were _right there_, and you were upstairs again. . ." he trails off.

He puts his face in my neck and it's suddenly wet; he's crying, I realize.

"Edward," I whisper, holding the back of his head.

"Hmm?" he mumbles.

I bite my lip, unsure of how to proceed.

"What, baby? B, jus' tell me," he says, kissing my skin where my shirt has fallen.

I take in a deep breath.

"I think . . . please don't freak out on me, but I think you're addicted to them," I whisper.

His body tenses at my words and it feels like he's stopped breathing.

"Sweetheart, just listen 'kay? Maybe it's not the pills themselves, but I think you're addicted to numbing the pain when it gets to be too much."

His fingers dig into my ass and he lets out a shuddering-shaky breath.


	3. Chapter 3

**Is this gonna get me in trouble? *shrugs* I'm having a friend preread this (she doesn't know I'm posting it as Twilight fanfic), and I sent her this chapter, but am seriously nervous because she's never read smut written by me, lmfao.**

* * *

**Go read "Dusty" by YellowBella!**

He doesn't make eye contact with me, but he does acknowledge what I just said.

"I don't know what to do; what else is there to do when I can't control shit?" he mumbles.

It strikes a nerve with me and hurts that he still doesn't think to come to me when he wants the drugs, but I don't comment on it.

Instead, I pick his head up from where it rests in the crook of my neck, and kiss him. He kisses back this time, not holding back. I push him back onto the bed and I follow with, trying to balance on just my palms pressing into the bed—not the easiest thing to do. His hands roam my body, up and down my legs repeatedly, until I reach for the zipper of his jeans. His hands stop, and he makes a noise that causes me to pause.

"What, Edward? Talk to me, tell me what you're thinking," I tell him, going back for his zipper.

I palm him through his pants and he groans; he's hard, so I know that wanting this isn't his problem.

"I—I—holy fuck, don't stop," he grits out.

I smirk and continue rubbing him.

"Fuck—" he says.

I sit up, taking my hand away from him and he groans in frustration.

"Why'd you stop?" he whines.

"Because," I say, taking off my shirt and tossing it elsewhere. "You're getting something, and I'm not. Call me selfish, but I want you, as well. So, please; put whatever qualms you have to the back of your mind and love me, already."

He eyes me warily while he finally goes for my jeans.

* * *

"Just—j-just fuck me, Edward," I pant out.

I want him to take it out on me, because I know he's holding back with me on top. I'm riding him, but I want him to take control—take over.

He lifts up and thrusts.

"No way," he says.

"Fuck!" I yell and fall forward, my hands slapping onto his sweaty chest.

He hisses from the sting but says nothing. He just sits up and flips us over, finally going on top.

"Here," he says. "This might be easier."

I nod.

"Um, thanks."

"E," I say, coaxing him. "Just let go; lose it, lose control. I know you wanna."

He shakes his head, and he's still too focused.

"Just fuck me, Edward!" I say through gritted teeth, pulling his hair roughly.

This strikes a cord in him, because his rhythm suddenly picks up speed and changes momentum.

"Is this what—what you wanted?" he demands.

I wrap my legs around him as the bed bangs into the wall. There's no headboard, thank God.

"Jus' let go!" I yell.

He finally does, and when he does, I grip onto his shoulders.

I don't know how long we both go at it, but when it's over, and we're both lying there out of breath, I'm already sore.

_This is gonna leave bruises tomorrow._

I wanted it, though.

Because I deserved it.


	4. Chapter 4

**Twilight and its characters belong to their rightful owners; I'm just borrowing. :) (However, this started out as an OS [original story], so that's why Edward's sister's name is 'Emma'.)**

**Thanks to everyone who is favoriting, story-alerting, author-alerting me/this story! I know, it's not your 'typical' story. I'm kind of taking a big risk, actually, with posting this fic. I had my friend (we'll call her 'Nic') read CH3 because of the lemon, asking if it was too much to post, and she yes and not to post it, but obviously I went ahead and posted it. If wants to delete this story, then they're a bunch of prudes who are catering to lots of young kids. *shrugs* Just my opinion. :)**

**I hope you're enjoying this, nevertheless. :)**

* * *

My eyes open and I see that it's still dark. I go to reach for my phone but my thighs groan and scream in protest. Edward stirs then wakes up when I try to move across him to stand up. I'm butt-naked, and cold. I search the floor trying to find my shirt, but all I see is Edward's; it'll have to do. I bend down and pick it up, trying to suppress the grunt that wants to escape.

"I heard that," Edward mutters from the bed.

Shit.

He gets up just as I've slipped his shirt on and he flips on the light; I'm blinded momentarily.

"Hey," I whine, blocking my poor eyes.

"How bad is it?" he asks.

I'm not stupid, I know he remembers how he fucked me just a few hours ago.

I shake my, and he removes my hand from my eyes. I blink twice and then squint.

"I'm serious, baby girl," he says.

I know he is.

I shrug. "'S'not that bad."

He rolls his eyes and goes to lift up my—his—shirt.

"Fine, then put my mind at ease and lemme see," he says.

I shake my head.

"Let me see!" he demands, and I know it's a lost cause.

Huffing, I let him pull up the blue shirt, knowing how he's going to react.

He freezes when he sees the already-forming bruises.

Slowly, he sinks to the ground and gently runs his fingers over my inner thighs, frowning.

"Fuck," he curses.

"What?" I say, already knowing.

He shuts his eyes tight as he stands back up.

"Why the hell didn't you stop me?" he asks, his tone not playing.

"Just don't, Edward, please. If I had wanted you to stop, I would've stopped you, believe me."

He shakes his head and throws on a clean pair of boxers, then goes for his door.

"Uh, where're you going? It's 3am," I say, looking at his alarm clock.

"To get you some ice."

Oh. . .

"I'm comin' with you," I say.

He nods and takes my hand.

Halfway down the stairs he stops me.

"Um, Edward?" I say when he picks me up bridle style.

"Don't think I can't see you struggling; just lemme do this," he says when we enter the kitchen.

The light is already on, and the place is a wreck.

He sets me down on a clean spot on the island and goes straight for the freezer. He gets some ice out and puts it in a baggie, and then wraps it in a towel, handing it to me afterwards.

"Thanks," I mutter.

"I still don't get why you didn't stop me; you had to have known it was gonna be like this," he tells me.

I shrug and wince as the ice settles onto my skin.

"I wanted it," I whisper.

"Huh?"

"Because I wanted it—I wanted you to lose control, to go that rough. I wanted them," I confess.

"The hell is wrong with you?" he demands.

I wince at his tone, but don't have time to answer because his sister, Emma, walks in.

"Where the fuck have you two been all night? You missed a great party," she says, reaching for something.

Edward keeps his eyes on me as he answers her.

"In my room, not that it's any of your business."

"Oh, fucking?" She nods. "Isn't it a little soon for that shit?"

"Is it possible for you to go one, whole sentence without cussing, Em?" Edward inquires.

"I don't know, is it possible for you to go an emotional episode without immediately turning to drugs?" she bites back, popping open a Coke.

"Fuck you," Edward snaps.

Emma shrugs nonchalantly.

"Hey—just 'cause you seem to like the woman doesn't mean I have to feel the same way, okay?" Edward tells her.

Emma sighs.

"I don't exactly like her; I just tolerate her. I'm trying to get to know her, y'know? She's Mom, and I wanna."

Edward looks sick, now.

"She doesn't have a problem getting to know _you_, Em; it's _me_! She didn't leave _you_ at fifteen-years-old, she left _me_. So, I get that you feel differently than I do," Edward says, gripping the island.

"She wants to get to you, you know; spend time with you," she tells him.

Edward visibly pales and I glare at Emma.

"Enough—no way in hell is she coming any where near him!" I yell.

"What are you, his spokesperson now?" she gripes.

I roll my eyes.

"Nah, she's right," Edward says. "I don't want her here, or near me at all for that matter. Bring her here and you can move the fuck out!"

"She wants to talk to you, Ky," Em says.

He shakes his head. "Fuck no! I have nothing to say to her. I'm twenty, almost 21-years-old; I don't need a mommy; it's too late for that shit, anyway."

Emma shrugs. "She knows she messed up. She knows she fucked you up."

His eyes bug out. "What, you fucking leak my secrets to her or something? Fuck you, Em!"

She looks to me. "Why're you even here?"

"'Cause I want her here," Edward answers for me.

"Why, so that you can leave again and fuck him up more than he already is?" she says to me, ignoring him.

I give her the finger.

"Don't blame her for _my _mistakes, Em. You're my sister, but I'll always choose _her_; always."

The implication is clear, even to my ears, and Emma seems to get the message, too.

"You'd choose water instead of blood?" she asks, and actually sounds close to tears.

Edward sighs, looking tired.

"You're _half_ blood, from _her _side. You're my sister, but yeah, if you—or someone—made me choose, I'd choose my girlfriend."

Wow.

I can't form a sentence as Edward says goodnight to Emma and tries to carry me back upstairs, but I shake my head and walk on my own behind him. It's 3:45 by the time we hit his pillows again. His arms wrap around me and he whispers that he loves me, and another apology.

"I love you too," I say quietly, gripping onto our laced fingers.

I don't know how I should feel about him 'if I had to choose between you two' revelation from downstairs; it's unsettling at best.


	5. Chapter 5

"I've gotta go back to my place for a few nights," I tell Edward.

It's late afternoon and we're chilling outside on the porch. Emma's off meeting someone, and it's hot out today. It's been two weeks since I came back, and exactly one week since I got bruised—oh, and he hasn't touched me since; as in, he won't even love me softly like he normally does. He's too freaked out; meanwhile, _I'm _the one who gave the go-ahead to lose it on me.

"Are you spending the night?" he asks, ignoring what I just told him.

I shake my head. "No. I've gotta spend a few at my place before they think I've skipped out or something stupid."

He nods, but I can tell that he's not happy about it; he doesn't even bother hiding it by faking a smile.

"Hey." I tap his shoulder and he looks up at me. "Love me before I go?"

I loop my arms around his neck; I'm sitting behind him, so I wrap my legs around his waist as well.

His head is bowed, and I know that he doesn't like what I just suggested.

"Edward." I singsong his name.

Abruptly, he stands up with me on his back piggyback style and swings-spins us around and around. I scream and squeal, laughing and half-afraid that he's going to drop me on my ass. The ground is sand—he lives right on the beach—but still.

"D-don't you f-fucking d-dare, Edward!" I warn him when I see him heading towards the water.

He does so anyway and the next thing I know, I'm being tossed into the air and then hit the water ass first. The water is freezing; it's hot today, but not that hot. He also didn't get deep enough into the water, fucking dick. I'm pissed off as I make my way out of the water, dripping wet, and back to a laughing-his-ass-off Edward. I forget about walking on eggshells around him like I have for two weeks straight, and kick his leg with my wet sand-covered foot.

"The fuck was that for?" he asks, still laughing.

I huff and stomp my way to the porch to take off my shirt and then wring it out. I don't have any clothes left; I've been wearing the crap I used to leave at Kyle's for emergencies.

"Baby, what's wrong?" he asks, coming up behind me.

I shake my head but stay turned away, not wanting to voice anything right now. I get out of my shorts and wring them out as well.

"Baby, you're pissed and I'm not sure why. You used to like it when I would dump you into the water," he says, and I can hear the smirk in his voice.

He does the right thing at the wrong moment: he massages my neck.

I whip around, getting away from his touch.

"What's _wrong_ is that I don't have any extra clothes left! Oh, and you also didn't get far into the water, and I landed on my fucking ass on the damn ground," I rant. "And now my tailbone hurts."

It does.

Edward face goes pale.

"Shit, I'm sorry. I didn't think—I thought I was in deep enough, sweetheart."

I gather up my still-wet clothes.

"Yeah, you never think, you just _do_! You just go for shit before thinking of the consequences!" I run up the steps and into the house, leaving him outside with a pained expression.

I throw my shit into the dryer and think over my words. I wasn't just talking about dumping me into the water, was I? No, I don't think so. While I didn't consciously mean to bring up him running to drugs before thinking about the consequences, Edward would still take it as though I did, and hell, maybe I did.

I hear the back door open and close, and I walk out, thinking that it's Edward, but it's not; it's his sister.

"Oh, hi," I mumble.

She acknowledges me with a little wave and goes for the fridge.

"Why's Edward outside, kicking at the sand, muttering to himself and ruining his hair?" she asks, pulling stuff out of the fridge. "Want any?" She holds up a soda.

I shake my head and clear my throat.

"Probably because I snapped at him," I say.

Her eyebrows go up as she drinks from a water bottle.

"About what?"

"Basically, not thinking before you act—just doing shit and not thinking through the consequences that may come with," I tell her.

"Shit, what'd he do now?" she asks, sounding annoyed.

"Dumped me into the water—in the shallow part. I don't have any more extra clothes, and I was in the last pair I had here," I say.

She rolls her eyes. "He's my brother, but he's a fucking idiot lately—so damn dense. You can borrow something of mine if ya want."

I shrug and say, "Sure, um, thanks."

She nods and we see Edward walk in finally.

"Nice hair style," Em comments, albeit sarcastically.

He flips her the bird but ignores me.

"Shut the fuck up, Em," he mumbles.

He looks at me finally. "I didn't think you were still here."

"Waiting for my clothes to dry," I say quietly.

He nods and then goes upstairs without saying anything else.

I look at Emma.

"Now I don't know if I should leave or not. . ." I trail off.

"He doesn't exactly have the best track record for how to deal with emotions," Emma comments, saying what I wouldn't.

I nod. "Exactly; I don't really trust it right now."

"You mean, you don't trust _him_?" she asks knowingly.

I sigh. "Yeah."

"I'll keep an eye on him," she says.

I quirk an eyebrow at her. "You can't possibly watch each and every moment!" I laugh.

"Wanna bet?" She grins shortly.

The smell of cigarettes floats downstairs, and the drier goes off.

"I should get going, I guess."

Emma nods. "I'll run up and get ya something—hold on."

I shake my head. "Nah, it's fine; my clothes are dry—thanks though."

She nods.

I take the clothes out and slip into them, and then debate saying goodbye to Edward before leaving.

I go upstairs and try his door, opening it. He's face down on his bed, and it looks like he's sleeping. I leave him alone, whispering goodbye, and then make my way to my car.

* * *

_**Three days later**_

"Well, don't lock your fucking door, then, and I won't have to pick the lock!" I hear Emma shout.

I just walked into Edward's kitchen and I can already hear them fighting.

They come down the stairs, and I stare, half-amused.

"I'll lock my fucking door if I want, _officer_! I didn't know I needed your damn permission!" Edward shouts.

"I'm just worried about you is all, Jesus—oh hey, B," Em says, noticing me.

"Like you actually give a shit about something that doesn't directly concern yourself; Hell'll have to freeze over before that happens!" Edward rolls his eyes.

"Prick," Em mutters, picking at her nails.

"Alright, cut it out you two. Hey Edward," I say.

"Oh, you're back," he says, finally noticing me as well—or just stopped ignoring my presence, whichever.

I nod. "Yep."

"Well, at least I got a 'goodbye' this time," he says, smirking, but his eyes don't show it.

My mouth opens but no sound comes out; it's fine because Emma does the talking—or rather, bitching out—for me.

"Hey, cut it the fuck out!" she snaps.

Edward rolls his eyes but mutters an apology.

I tell them I'm going to up to the bathroom, but I make a detour into Edward's room. I lock his door and start going through everything; his dresser, desk, bed, everything, trying to find any types of drugs that he might have stashed. All I come across is some weed, but that doesn't exactly concern me at the moment. I unlock his door and go to the bathroom.

When I come back out, Edward is standing in the hallway, arms crossed. When I try to go downstairs, he blocks my path.

And for a moment, I'm actually scared of him, and worried that he might really be high on something.


	6. Chapter 6

**Sometimes, this is what love does to people - it makes them deal with shit that they shouldn't have to.**

He doesn't say a word as he backs me up against the nearest wall by the bathroom, caging me in. His eyes are unreadable, and I cannot deny that I'm afraid, because I am a little.

"Do you think I'm . . . I don't know, stupid, B?" he asks, his voice bordering on condescending.

I try to lean as far away from him as possible, trying to get a better look at him. His eyes are beginning to show so much; they're almost laughing at me.

"No, I don't," I say carefully, wondering where he's going with this.

He tilts his head down a little.

"Good, because I'm not," he says, his voice calm but a storm is raging behind the stillness—it's forced. "You went through my room." He isn't asking, it's a fucking statement.

I don't say word, still not knowing if he's high or not.

He smiles like he's caught me, and I suppose that he has.

"Did you think I didn't know why you were going upstairs—the _real _reason? Oh, maybe you fooled my bitch of a sister, but I know you and your ways, the games you play, baby girl," he taunts.

My eyes keep locked with his.

"Tell me," he says, leaning in close to my mouth, whispering. "Tell me you didn't go through my shit."

He brushes his lips over mine, but I hardly even feel them.

"I could bruise you again right now for going behind my back, for not fucking trusting me," he tells me, nipping at my bottom lip.

"You already do that; you do it to my heart every time you're like this!" I hiss.

He chuckles against my mouth, looking at me briefly.

"Say you trust me," he demands, kissing me.

I don't say anything, because there isn't anything to say.

I stand there frozen, instead.

"Say it, baby girl; tell me how much you fucking trust me." He bites my lip again.

"But you don't, do you? No, no, that's motherfucking _clear_, sweetheart," he says snidely.

"Fuck off," I tell him, becoming just as harsh as he's being.

He laughs and kisses me, but it's unwanted; I don't want anything to do with him when he's like this. I come to the realization that no, he isn't high; this is just a side of Edward that he rarely ever shows, but is still there.

I reach up and grab at the back of his head, getting a handful of his hair, and yank his head back.

"Go to hell, Edward!" I push him back, away from me.

I step away from the hall and start to walk away, only for him to grab hold of my arm.

"Let go of me!" I tell him.

He turns me around.

"Go ahead; fucking leave like you always do!" he dares me.

"Oh no, don't you fucking dare turn this around on me!" I shout back at him. "This shit—this is _your_ doing, Edward! Now, let go of my damn arm!"

Thankfully, he does as I ask and let's go.

"Fuck . . . what am I doing?" he mutters.

I roll my eyes.

"You know exactly what you're doing; don't even play that game," I snap, fed up.

"Are you okay, baby?" he asks, worry shining his eyes now.

"Go to hell," I repeat. "I don't even know who you are, anymore!"

I leave him standing there and bound down the stairs, and see Emma still in the kitchen.

"Are you alright?" she asks, worried.

I shake my head.

"Did he hurt you? Physically, I mean."

I shake my head again.

"I've gotta go—I gotta get outta here," I say. "I shouldn't have come."

"Wait!" I hear Edward yell, coming down the stairs after me.

I turn around at the backdoor, and he's behind me.

He looks panicked.

"D-don't l-leave, baby; I'm sorry," he says, stuttering.

I huff. "I'm leaving, and that's that. I shouldn't have even come today; it's obvious I'm not wanted."

He vehemently shakes his head.

"Please, stay. Don't fucking leave again!" he pleads, eyes and voice begging me not to do this to him again.

"I didn't say it was for good, did I?" I cross my arms. "Look . . . I need to cool off and so do you."

"How long?" he asks, real fear in his tone.

I shrug. "Hours? Maybe a day or two? I don't know, Edward; I don't know!"

He nods. "Did you—did you mean anything that you said up there?"

"Like what?"

"For me to 'go to hell'." He uses air-quotes.

See, that's the thing; he gets me to say shit that I'd normally never, ever say, and never mean. However, then again, I wouldn't say the things I do if I didn't mean them. I'd never tell him that, though.

"No," I half-lie.

Emma snorts quietly, and Edward turns to glare at her.

I put my hand on the doorknob, twisting it to open the door.

"I'll be back later," I say.

Edward spins back to me.

"When's 'later'?" he asks, panic returning.

I sigh. "I don't know . . . I need time to clear my head."

Meaning, I need time to think.

"But," I say, grabbing his jaw and forcing him to look at me. "Fucking _pick up your damn phone and call me _if need be! Got it?" I lock eyes with him.

He nods and leans in like he wants to kiss me, but sees me tense and I think I flinch, so he takes an actual step back, sighing in defeat.

"I'm sorry," he says again.

"Whatever," I say, waving my hand.

I guess that fear I felt upstairs is still lingering around, even now.

"I love you," he says.

He looks—and sounds—almost like he isn't quite sure that I'm going to say it back; because maybe he pushed the limit this time, crossed that unforgivable line? Little does he know (or, maybe he does), he already crossed that line the first time he turned to drugs instead of coming to me for help, and yet here I am, still.

I nod. "Love you, too."

I can tell that he's disappointed I didn't say exactly what he told me, but he does breathe a sigh that sounds like relief.

"Talk to you later?" he asks.

"Yeah; fucking call me, though, if you need me!" I point my finger, trying to get my point across.

He nods.

"I will, baby."

Right, well we'll see if he does or not.

Emma follows me out to my car and I get in, starting it.

"I'll call even if he doesn't," she tells me.

I nod, thank her, and then take off.


	7. Chapter 7

**Painkillers are no joke. Like with any addiction, they can tear your life apart, make it hell, and rip relationships apart. **

* * *

**Songs for this chapter:**

**Only You Can Love Me This Way – Keith Urban**

**Too Far Gone – Sam Bradley**

* * *

**Four days later**

It's 1am when my phone rings; it's been ringing nonstop since 10pm. Knowing that it's Edward, I don't pick up; I had a sort of epiphany the other day: I enable him to do the shit that he does.

I look through the texts that he's sent over the last few hours.

_9:59pm: **I miss u, baby. –E**_

_10:30pm: **Are you sleeping? If not, can u come over? –E**_

_10:40pm: **it's been 4days, and u still aren't back yet – I miss my girl. –E**_

_10:50pm: **why are you doing this? U said it wasn't forever… -E**_

_11:15pm: **I need you baby…pls answer ur phone –e**_

_11:30pm: **fuckk it. –E**_

_12:18am: **I feel nothin', & yet so much. I fuckin miss u, and I need u, but u wont help. **_

_12:20am: **Fuck you. I hate you right now. **_

It's a quarter after one, and I know that he's high. I pick up when my phone rings for the umpteenth time.

"Finally!" It's Emma.

"Oh, hi; I thought you were Edward calling," I say quietly.

She snorts. "Nah, he's too fucking high outta his motherfucking mind to dial a number right now."

It breaks my heart, but I'm not crying this time.

"I'm sorry Em," I say.

"Ugh, it's his damn fault." She sighs. "Look, I figured this was gonna happen—I mean, you and I both know that he doesn't handle 'breaks' well."

I nod at nothing. "Yeah."

"I—hold on, B," she says. "Edward, you motherfuckin' motherfucker!"

"_Go to hell, Em! And take the heartless bitch I call a girlfriend with you!" _I hear Edward yell back at her.

Even over the phone I can still hear that behind the anger, there's sadness.

"If anyone's to fucking blame, it's you, dear brother of mine!" Emma snaps. "Sorry, B."

I sigh shakily. "I deserve this completely; don't worry."

"Please," she scoffs.

I hear a door slam shut, and Emma curses.

"Y'know what, I'm coming over—wait, is he even still there?" I say.

"Yeah, he's here. I took his keys and hid 'em," she tells me.

"Good; I'll be there soon," I say, ready to hang up.

"I don't know," she hesitates. "He's not exactly . . . stable, right now."

I roll my eyes. "Please, he can't hurt me more than he already has."

I hang up and get ready to leave.

* * *

"Edward, calm down you stupid fuck!" I hear Emma snap when I enter the house.

"Shut up, you don't know anything!" Edward snaps right back.

Edward stomps into the kitchen and then notices me.

"Oh look, you're finally here! What, you here to rip me into more pieces, huh?" He gives a stony glare.

"Edward, knock it off," Em says tiredly, joining us in the kitchen.

"Fuck you!"

"Edward," I say, trying to his attention.

He turns his head to stare at me, but it looks like it's right through me; it's like the drugs have completely taken him over again.

_They have._

"Let's go upstairs, okay? You can do whatever," I say, trying to coax him.

"B," Em says half-warning me and sounding afraid.

I shake my head at her.

"Whatever I want," Edward chuckles out. "Like bruising you?"

I bite my lip.

"Tell me something, _baby girl_; would you really _let _me bruise you again? Could you handle that—the pain again?" He smirks, thinking he's got me.

I nod my head, though, not willing to give in so easily.

"Like I said, Edward; whatever you want."

I walk to the stairs, willing him to follow me.

* * *

I go into his room with him trailing behind me, and once the door is shut, I know that there's no turning back. He locks it and I realize that he's planning on doing something tonight.

"Scared, baby?" He grins.

I shake my head. "I trust you." It's only a half-lie.

He rolls his eyes, coming to stand in front of me.

"Like hell you do."

He towers over me.

"What—what do you want?" I ask him.

"You," he answers simply.

"You have me," I say, sincere.

"Do I, though?" His voice is doubt-filled, but his eyes remain drug-cloudy.

I nod my head.

He reaches out and touches my jaw, and then leans down to kiss me. I back up until I hit the bed, pulling him with me.

"What're you doing?" he asks, a little out of breath.

I smirk. "What, you don't want me?"

"Oh, I want you, no doubt. My way, though." He grins, but it doesn't reach his eyes.

"Fuck, Edward," I say.

* * *

The bed is banging into the wall and it's like a repeat of last time—only this, I didn't have to beg him to let loose, he did that on his own.

"Fuck—why'd you—leave?" he grunts out and thrusts into me hard.

I hang on—barely—and cling onto his shoulders and waist.

He didn't just immediately fuck me, he did get me wet first, so I can't exactly complain in that area.

"I know," I whisper.

"No—you—d-don't." He pulls out and then slams back into me.

I cry out.

"I hate you for this—for leaving me—for not—answering when I needed you," he actually cries.

"I hate for you turning to drugs every time," I whisper.

His thrusts are hard, forceful, as he comes, and then he just collapses on top of me, out of both breath and energy.

* * *

I play with his hair between my fingers. It's an hour or so later, and except for cleaning up, neither of us have moved. He cleaned me up with a shirt and then cleaned himself off. I should have peed right after, but I didn't want to move.

"I love you," Edward murmurs, his breath hot in the crook of my neck.

He started to come down off the high of the drugs after we had sex, and relaxed a little. He's calm now; the storm is over for tonight. His energy to fight and scream has run its course, and all he's left with is exhaustion. His words contradict what he said earlier; about hating me.

He contradicts himself all the time though.

The lips that were harsh and spewed malice-filled words just a couple of hours ago are now soft and gentle against my skin, pressing feather-light touches and kisses and caresses onto my skin, melting into me.

"I love you," he repeats like a broken record. "Say it back, baby; please, say it back."

Instead of words, I sit up and he follows, watching me with worried eyes.

"What're you doing?" he asks.

He calms a little when I slide onto his lap and wrap myself around him. He holds me to him with one arm, and takes my messy hair out of its falling-apart-ponytail with the other. I wince as he tries to slide the holder out; it's stuck, but he finally gets it free.

"Sorry," he murmurs, kissing my temple.

"Why didn't you answer your phone?" he asks after a little while.

I tense, worried and thinking that the storm is back, but his body is still relaxed and calm; still, I tread carefully.

"I needed time . . . I'm sorry," I say through a whisper.

He nods.

"Why did you . . . um," I say, but pause.

"Ask me," he says.

I pull away and wipe at my eyes.

"Why'd you get high again?"

"Because I needed you, and you weren't answering, and you said you'd answer," he tells me.

So, he did purely for attention this time.

_This time? Try like every time_, my brain tells me.

I nod and go to move off of him, but he holds me, shaking his head, trying to get me to stay.

"No . . . stay. Please." He buries his face in my neck and hair, inhaling.

* * *

Before we lay back down, I ask Edward what he took to get high on.

"The usual," he answers quietly.

I nod and wrap myself around him.

Painkillers.


	8. Chapter 8

**I knew someone like Drugward (Painkillerward is too long, right?) for a few years. While nothing romantic ever evolved out of it (apart from my naive feelings), I experienced the same things - emotions - that Bella does in here. **

**I know that Emma isn't the easiest character to like, but she's real and some people are like that.**

* * *

**Sometimes, love makes us do crazy, unbelievable and unforgivable things. And sometimes, it opens up our eyes to and what's not always the most easiest thing to accomplish, but what's needed.**

* * *

It's Sunday evening and Edward and I are sitting in his living room, watching something on TV; I think it's _Beavis and Butt-head_, but I can't be sure—I'm not really paying attention to be honest. I'm on the couch with him, his head is in my lap, and he's laughing at Beavis going nuts from sugar; he's so relaxed, so damn calm. Emma sits in the recliner kitty corner from me. Me, I'm in my own world; I feel so much, yet I feel fucking empty at the same time. Something inside me left the night that Edward kept texting me and I finally came over.

I feel like crying but hold back because I don't want Edward to know. I glance at Emma and she's looking at me; I think she suspects that I'm not okay. I can't hold it in anymore and pat Edward's head, telling him to let me up, that I feel sick. He sits up quickly and does as I ask, and I rush up the stairs and into the bathroom, locking the door.

I face the sink, hands gripping the edges, and the tears make their escape. I feel like I'm drowning, again; I can't handle it. There's a knock at the door.

"Shit," I mutter.

"B, it's me." It's Emma.

I unlock the door and she steps inside, closing it behind her and locking the door.

"What's going on?" she demands. "You busted outta there like you were on fire."

The tears continue to flood my face, making it nearly impossible to see.

"Shit B, tell me," she tells me.

"I—I have d-d-depression, E-Em," I manage out and take a deep, shuddering breath. "I-it's coming back."

Actually, it's already back.

"Oh, I never knew. What causes it—brings it on?" she asks, concerned.

"Stress, pressure," I say.

We share a knowing look.

"So, whatcha gonna do?" she asks after a moment.

I shrug, sighing and wipe my face off and blow my nose.

"The thing is, with him, it's all or nothing. I knew—knew we shouldn't have ever started going out—I should've kept my fucking mouth shut about how I felt," I rant.

"Well you can't take it back now," she says.

"I need a damn break!"

"So, take one!" she exclaims.

I roll my eyes. "Yeah, and risk him ending up in the hospital, or worse, in the fucking ground because of it? No thanks." I snort.

She rolls her eyes at me.

"Then that would be his fault, not yours. What he needs is help; more help than any of us can give him."

* * *

Walking back downstairs, Emma stops me in the kitchen.

"Take that break. Say you're not feeling well—which isn't a lie—or something, whatever, but take that damn break! Before you lose it completely," she hisses at me.

I nod and slip on my flip-flops.

"Hey, Edward?" I say, stepping into the living room.

He's in a sitting position on the couch, and immediately stands when he sees that I'm in the room.

"Hey baby girl; what's up?" He smiles at me gently.

I step closer to him and he meets me the rest of the way, encasing me in his arms.

"I'm gonna head home—I'm not feeling good," I say.

Concern covers his face.

"What's wrong?"

"Jus' tired, E," I say.

He nods. "Do you wanna stay here? I can take of you."

He sways us and it feels like I might puke.

I shake my head. "Thanks, but I just want my own bed tonight; thank you, though. You do take care of me."

He nods and doesn't put up a fight walking me out to my car to see me off.

Leaning into my car he says, "I love you."

I tell him to step back, open the car door, and step back out. I throw myself at him, and he almost falls over, but quickly catches himself. I take his face in my face and kiss him once, twice, three times; I let him deepen it. When we both need oxygen again, I get into my car and start it.

"I love you," I tell him.

He grins big and tells me it again, and then taps the top of my car.

"Later."

"Later," I repeat his words.

* * *

**A day and a half later**

It's the middle of the night and I'm sitting in my room on my bed, notebook in my lap. I begin writing.

_**Edward, Edward, Edward – I love you. You know this, or at least you should by now, even after everything, all of the shit we've gone through. You're the one who's always gotten me (who I really am, my history, etc), and I love you for that as well. You're wonderful, a great best friend, and a fan-fucking-tastic boyfriend (who can also love really good!) – Most of the time. Some days, like lately, though, it's hard to remember that that part of you is still there. Because it's good then it's good, it's so good until it goes bad, you know? Then you're searching for the you that you once had. You lost yourself in drugs some time ago, and I was there when your mother left (I need to get this out, I'm sorry sweetheart), and I know how it rocked you sideways and up and down like an earthquake. You turned to painkillers to help deal with it all; you still came to me at times before it got really bad, but you stopped at some point, and just delved into the painkillers to help you. They're ruining you, and I hate it! I hate watching you when it gets bad, and believe me, it's gotten pretty damn bad lately – it hasn't been 'that bad' in awhile, but the last two times it has been. I don't blame you for nearly fucking me into the wall – I gave the go-ahead, but I don't think the drugs are doing anything except bringing out a side of you that doesn't need to see the light of day, ever. **_

_**I have depression Edward, I know you know that. Watching you do this shit to yourself (and to your sister) kills me inside. You get SO bad when you take multiples of the killers that it legit scares me sometimes – scares me that you're going to do something physically (to yourself and others), and that it'll eventually put you in the fucking ground. Do you think I want to see that happen? No, I don't. I love you, I love you so much that it fucking depresses me at times like this – I can't even be around you sometimes (like now) because of it. I really wish I could have the old Edward back; the fun-loving, carefree, no-harm-has-been-done-to-me Edward. Don't worry, I don't blame an ounce of YOU for ruining that part of you (it's still there, but it's shadowed over by like a dark thunder cloud), I blame HER. **_

_**This kills me as I write this out (and you know I don't hand-write letters very often), but it needs to be done; otherwise, I'm afraid that I'M going to self-destruct one day soon.**_

_**I don't want you to come back around. Don't call, don't come over, don't see me, don't text/write, nothing – not until you get help. You need it, Edward. If you care about me (if you love me at all), you'll do this, right? Please, sweetheart. I die a little more each time you take those killers and your moods get out of control. **_

_**Either get help, or I'm finished for good. Yes, I'm giving you an ultimatum, but baby, it's for your own good. I LOVE YOU, and I DON'T want to find you dead from an overdose someday in the near future. **_

_**But Edward, don't do this just for ME, do it for yourself, too. You deserve it.**_

_**I LOVE YOU, I LOVE YOU, I MOTHERFUCKING LOVE YOU.**_

_**~-B-~**_

I put it in an envelope and seal it, and then call Emma to have her come pick it up; that's the first she hugs in me over two months.


	9. Chapter 9

**Certain drugs—painkillers in this case—can be both physically and mentally addicting. In this story, I made it out to be that Edward is mentally addicted to them; his mind wants them, and he's been taking them for so long, his body needs to clean out.**

* * *

"Hello," I say quietly when I answer my phone.

"What the fuck is this, B?" Edward's angry voice spills from the other end.

It's late at night but I'm still up; I can't sleep, and apparently Edward has read my letter. He's not just angry though, I know he isn't; no, he's more hurt, and anger masks over the hurt like a thunder cloud.

"You know what it is; exactly what it all says in there, Edward," I say, clearing my throat, trying to get my bearings.

"What, so, you're breaking up with me then?" he scoffs.

"No!" I almost shout. "I just . . . I need a break before _I _break."

He sighs or maybe huffs.

"I need you, baby. I fucking need you, and you do this shit," he says to me.

Sitting on the floor against my bed, I bang my head backwards.

"B? Are you still there?" he asks when I'm still silent.

"What you need . . . it's always about what _you _need. Well, what about what _I _need? Do you ever stop—pause—to think about that? Or, do you just think all about yourself?" I hiss angrily, fed up, having had enough.

"Of course I think about you! Why wouldn't I? Where the fuck is all this coming from, anyway?" he exclaims in my ear.

I pull the phone away briefly, wincing, and then put it back.

"Where's it coming from? From you; you're bringing my damn depression back! Actually, it's already back, thanks very much! You cause me to slip and do shit I shouldn't—wouldn't normally do." I'm trying to hold back tears by the end of my little speech.

"Baby, what? What 'things' do I make you do?" he asks, confused and concerned.

I groan quietly.

"You know those marks on my leg?" I ask.

"From the curling irons? Yeah, what about 'em?" he asks.

I snort. "Do you honestly think I'm really _that _fucking clumsy, Edward? And why would I burn my _leg_? They're not burns."

"Jesus Christ." He blows out a breath. "Tell me you're trying to pull a fast one on me—trying to hurt me by making shit up!"

"No, I'm not," I tell him, wishing that I were, though.

"Fuck," he says. "Lemme come over baby; I—please."

I shake my head at nothing. "No, Edward." I squeeze my eyes closed, my chest tight and it's getting harder to breathe and therefore talk.

"Please, baby," he pleads.

"No! Not—not 'til you get help."

"And if I don't?" he asks.

"Then you know what," I say.

"Yeah, you'll break-up with me." I can hear him roll his eyes.

"No, I'll end everything; friendship and all," I explain.

"W-what? Sweetheart, n-no, please. I fucking _need_ you in my life; you're the only stable thing!"

I snort. "I'm not that stable, Edward."

"Yeah well, you're more stable than I am," he insists.

"Please, consider getting help," I beg him. "I love you, and I don't wanna lose you—at all, in any aspect."

* * *

It's been over a month, going on two now, since I last saw or spoke to Edward. Emma has called a few times to tell me how he's doing, but that's it.

My phone rings with a text.

_**I know u said not to do this, but I wanted 2 tell u…im gonna b going 2 get help soon. –E**_

_**I love you. I always will. –E**_

I don't even think properly as I dial the familiar number.

"You're really going?" I ask before he can get anything out when he picks up.

"_Oh, um, hi. I didn't think you'd—you'd call."_

"I . . . I wanted to." I bite my lip.

"_Oh . . . well, I'm glad—happy—that you did. To answer your question, yeah; I'm really going. I tried the detoxing at home, but I—I couldn't do it," _he admits.

"There's no shame in asking for help, Edward," I tell him.

"_I—hang on," _he tells me. _"It's B!"_

I smirk, knowing that it's Emma in the background, bugging him.

"_Fine, here. Hold on, lemme say goodbye. Damn you. Hey, B?"_

"Yeah?" I laugh.

"_An annoying little elf wants to talk to you—ow! Bitch—fuck, stop hitting me, you brat! Um, I love you, B."_

"I love you too, Edward. Always will," I repeat his words back to him.

"_Aloha, chica!" _Emma greets me.

"Hi, Em," I laugh.

"_How're you doin'?" _she asks.

"Me? I'm fine. He sounds better; his voice is clearer," I comment.

"_Yeah, he's detoxed quite a bit. Hold on, okay?"_

"Sure," I say.

She reappears a moment.

"_Sorry about that; I moved into the other room."_

"It's fine," I assure her.

"_So, yeah; he tried to detox at home by himself, but uh, kinda freaked out when he realized that all he could think was wanting the pills—getting his hands on them again. I caved and gave him 1 one night because he was really bad. It was in the morning that he decided to enter a program, where he knows he can't get to anything his mind craves."_

"Jeesh . . . I was hoping it wasn't gonna be this bad," I say, sighing.

"_Mmm yeah, but I think we both knew that it was," _she tells me.

"Yeah, true. How long is the program? Like, how many days-months?"

"_Umm well, a 'trial run' is thirty days, and if patients wanna stay longer, then it's 60-90 days. They can leave at any time, though."_

"Well, that's not exactly bad," I say, kind of relieved.

"_I agree. Listen, I have to go, but I'll fill you in more once he goes in next week, okay?"_

"Okay, bye."

"_Bye, babe."_


	10. Chapter 10

**3 ½ years after**

Emma kept me up to date about Edward for a while, until something happened and she didn't. Still to this day, I don't know why she stopped, but it was probably for the better. I moved on after the first year passed by, busying myself in writing a book. It got published earlier this year. I'm going up to the cashier to pay for a couple of books when I see someone familiar; all too well, I remember him.

"Holy shit, Edward?" I say, still a bit uncertain.

He's working the register when he looks up. His eyes find me and they widen.

"Holy fuck, it is you!" I exclaim, forgetting that I'm in a bookstore.

"Hi B," he says, his voice a little different than it used to be; it's deeper now.

"When did—when did you get back? Have you been in there this whole time?" I shoot questions at him.

He shakes his head as he points to my purchases; I hand them to him and he starts to ring them up.

"No, I've been back for awhile," he tells me quietly.

I frown. "Tomorrow'll be four years since I last saw or even spoke to you—how long 'awhile'?"

"Two years." He swipes my MasterCard.

My jaw drops.

"You're not serious!" I look at him, and looks right back at me; he's serious, alright. "You're serious. Why—why didn't somebody tell me that you were back?" I demand.

"B," he says, bagging my stuff and handing it to me. "Now's not the time. Come over to the house and hang with Em—it's still the same house we've always had—if you want. I get off here around four; I'll be home right after."

I eye warily but nod. I grab the bag from him and head out, driving the familiar roads to his house.

* * *

"Who the fuck—holy fuck," Emma says when I just walk into the house twenty minutes later.

"Yeah, that's pretty much what your brother said, too," I tell her, glaring at her.

Her eyes widen but she remains calm.

"Um, yeah; how much did he tell you?" she asks, taking a seat on a stool at the island.

The very same island that I sat on when I was bruised on my thighs that late night.

I push through the memories.

"Oh, not much, just that he's been back for _two fucking years_!" I shout.

She sighs. "I'm sorry, alright? In my defense, he asked me not to tell you shit until he was ready."

I scoff. "Really? Em, it's been close to FOUR years! It takes someone that long to tell another person—their best friend—that they're back from detoxing?" I cross my arms.

She nods. "Sometimes, yeah! Listen, he didn't just detox; he went to actual rehab at one point."

"What do you mean, at one point?" I ask.

"It's not my shit to tell." She shakes her head. "Let Edward tell you; just don't push it outta him."

"Like I'd do that!" I snort.

She gives me a look.

"Okay," I concede. "Maybe I would!"

"You would." She nods.

I roll my eyes.

"So, I picked up your book the other day," she tells me out of nowhere.

"Really," I say.

She nods. "He could sue you for defamation of character, y'know."

"Have you read it?"

"Don't have to; you can tell just by the description if you know the real thing," she tells me.

I nod. "Well, he can sue if he wants—"

"Sue who?" Edward walks in right then, cutting me off.

"I thought you weren't off 'til four?" I ask him.

"I was able to leave early; they weren't that busy," he explains.

I nod and watch as he pulls off his jacket and steps out of his shoes. He looks different: His hair has grown out a little, coming down his neck a little, and his face looks like he's aged more than he really has.

"You hungry?" Emma asks him.

He shakes his head no.

"I'm good," he tells her, eyeing me.

"Why don't you two . . . go ahead and get reacquainted or whatever; I'm gonna start dinner," Emma tells us.

We both nod and then look at each other.

"Um, where'd you wanna talk?" I ask.

"Wherever you're comfortable," he tells me.

_Leaving it up to me; okay,_ I think to myself.

"How 'bout your room, then?" I phrase it like a question.

He looks unsure.

"Or, the living is fine, too," I say, trying to soothe him however I can.

He shakes his head. "No, my room's fine; let's go."

He let's me lead the way up; it's all so familiar. Once we get there and we're in his bedroom with the door almost all the way shut, things become . . . awkward.

"H-how much did my sister tell you?" he asks me as I sit in his old desk chair.

He takes a seat on his old bed.

"Nothing, really," I say. "Honest; she said it wasn't hers to share."

He nods. "Huh . . . well, I guess I should start explaining, then."

"It would be nice—helpful," I say, trying to sound playful, but it still sounds harsh, bitter even.

He nods and exhales, then begins.

"As you already know, I went in to detox for sixty days, and then decided to stay for ninety. When I got out and came back here, I wasn't anywhere near ready to handle being back around familiar things; things that reminded me of the drugs and what triggered my mind into wanting them. So, Em agreed to checking me into rehab for a straight ninety days, and with this one you couldn't sign yourself out," he tells me. "That was the first year of things."

"Why didn't you tell me, contact me, something, though? Em just stopped telling me anything," I say.

He nods. "Because I asked her not to—not to tell you anything."

"What—why?" I ask, incredulous.

He sighs. "'Cause, I knew you'd worry your ass off about me, more than you already did; I didn't want that. I wanted you to live your life, and do what _you _needed to do. You were right, y'know; it _was _all about me. I never realized it until I went into rehab, though."

I lean back in the chair, trying to take it all in—process everything he just told me.

"I-I fucking missed you, Edward; that _never _went away!" I yell through tears.

"Shit, I didn't—I didn't want you to cry—fuck," he tells me, pulling at his stupidly still amazing hair.

"It's fine," I say, wiping my stinging eyes.

"It's not though, and we both know it," he tells me.

He pats the bed, motioning me over to sit beside him. Maybe I shouldn't, but I stand up and take the seat next to him. Just like he used to, he seems to calm down—relax—when I'm close to him.

"Better?" I ask him.

He nods, albeit shyly.

"Do you . . . do you have any questions?" he asks quietly after a moment or two.

I think for a moment, and then shake my head.

"I suppose I do, but nothing that I can think of immediately," I say.

He nods.

"Umm. . ." I trail off.

"What, B? You can ask anything," he tells me.

He looks at me while he waits; he's patient, which different from how our talks used to go.

"Um . . . did you wanna see me at all during the last three and a half years?" I ask, uncertain.

He nods. "Every fucking day."

And there's the Edward that I know; cussing.

"I even wrote you letter after letter after letter, and so on, while in detox and then the ninety day rehab stay," he reveals.

"Really?"

He nods.

"Yeah, actually I still them have floating around somewhere."

"Why didn't you send them? Or, better yet, call? Even once you never—I-I thought you were dead!" The tears come flooding back.

He clears his throat and reaches out like he wants to touch me, comfort me, but pulls back before doing so.

"I'm sorry," he whispers. "I thought, I thought I was doing the right thing. You said not to bother with it 'til I got help, and that's part of why."

"Yeah, but you got help!" I cry.

He nods. "Yes, but I've relapsed, B. It's been . . . fucking hard, and you were my rock and then knowing that I'd made you hurt yourself made me wanna cut myself off from the world for awhile. Please, try to understand," he begs.

I nod, because I do, I do understand where he's coming from.

I lean over and hug him, which surprises him I think.

"I never . . . never stopped missing or loving you; it hurt every day, up until I finally saw you today, and it still hurts," I whisper into his chest.

He takes a shaky breath and finally wraps his arms around me, enveloping me in his scent.

"Neither did I; never once did I stop either, baby girl." He uses my old nickname.

* * *

That night I I go home with a shoebox of letters. I put it on my bed and change into more comfortable clothes, and then take a deep, much needed breath, and then lift the lid of the shoebox. It's filled with letters, each of them numbered and labeled. I go through the ones from his detoxing stage. A lot of them, most of them, are angry, but I try not to let them get to me, knowing that the drugs were still leaving his system at that time. One letter in particular stands out; it's marked _**'Rehab – day #1'**_.

_**B, it's been almost a year and a half since we last talked, and since I last held her, smelt her scent, etc. Her scent is gone from my clothes, my room, my house entirely; I miss it, I miss her. When she told me not to come around anymore, I didn't believe her. It was like one of those bad dreams where you couldn't wake-up. **_

_**She was my rock; I could only stay when she was around. Not letting me fall. Sometimes I wonder, if I closed my eyes forever, would it ease the pain? Could I breathe again? She opened my eyes when we talked the time before last; telling me that it was always about me, me, me; never about her, only about what 'I' needed. I thought about it, and she was correct. I asked my sister to cut off any and all contact with her, because yeah, maybe I'm addicted, I'm out of control (which is I've checked into a real rehab place), and although she's the drug that keeps me from dying, I was slowly killing her each time I got time and got out of fucking control. She asked me to this not only for her but for myself as well, but if I could talk to her, I'd tell her Yeah, 'you're the only reason, you're the only reason I'm trying'. Maybe one day I'll be lucky enough to get her back, but for now I need to steer clear of her because I'm scared shitless that I'll kill her with my unstableness. I'm not afraid of dying, but I am afraid of losing her. It's better to know that it happened this way than to find out that she off'd herself because of something that I did. **_

I'm a sobbing mess by the end of his self-addressed letter, and I reach for my phone, dialing the one who started this and the only one who can help, make it all go away, make it better.

"_Hello?" _he answers in a sleepy voice.

I don't stop crying as I answer him.

"I-I-I—you'd never l-lo-lose me," I stutter out.

"_You read the letters; shit." _He sighs. _"You're crying."_

"C-can you c-c-come over? P-please," I beg through tears.

"_Are you sure?"_

"Yes," I say, crying hard.

"_I'll be there soon."_

"_I love you," _he adds. _"I never fucking stopped."_

"I love you," he tells me as he holds me while I cry into his chest.

* * *

He's been here thirty minutes, and all I've done is cry, cry, sob. He doesn't seem to care—mind—though; just like the old Edward.

"I l-l-love you too," I answer.

"I have to go," he tells me at around 4am. "I gotta work later today."

I nod and let him up from my bed and hold.

"Um. . ." I trail off, not knowing how to ask what I want to know.

"What is it?" he asks.

"Uh . . . are you coming back? I mean—am I gonna see you again?" Even I can hear the fear in my own voice.

He stays silent as he runs a hand through his hair; another thing that never changed.

"I'm sure we'll see each other around—I mean, y'did find me at the bookstore yesterday." He smirks, but it doesn't reach his eyes.

I stand up on shaky legs; he reaches out to help me find my balance, and then quickly let's go as if I'm acid.

_Or, maybe he's the acid, _I think to myself.

"So, that's it?" I ask, incredulous. "I haven't seen you in what would be four-fucking-years, and you've been back for two, and you're just gonna—tell me something: If I hadn't recognized you yesterday, would you have said _anything _to me? Ever?" I'm angry, and he knows that.

"I—I don't know! I would've written a letter—I had one written out already—saying congratulations about your book," he tells me, agitated.

"Seriously," I scoff. "My book? Wow."

"B, you're like—I can't be around you! You're like a fucking—"

I cut him off. "Yeah, I'm like a drug to you! I know, I get it."

"I'm not good for you! Please, please try to comprehend that!" he whisper-yells.

Something about him has changed; I've said that a lot since yesterday, but it's true. It's as if a huge chunk of him left along with the drugs out of his system or something; the old person that I knew would have fought tooth, fang and nail to keep me with him; this person, this actually hurts.

"Is this you saying that I'm not good for you—you're not good for me, or is it one of your therapists from rehab?" I question.

He doesn't answer me, to I prod him.

"Answer me."

He looks at me, and his eyes hurt.

"Do you think . . . do you honestly think that I don't want you in my life?" he asks lowly.

I shrug. "I don't know; how am I supposed to when you waited to tell me that you back? Oh, and you probably wouldn't have told me anyway!"

"I made you—I caused you to fucking hurt yourself! Did you think I'd forgotten that? 'Cause I never did!"

"I was messed up then, as well. We both took the time we needed to . . . fix ourselves," I say.

"How do you I'm not gonna make you do those things again? Hmm?" he asks me.

I huff. "How're you ever supposed to move forward with shit if you never try? All you're doing is trying to avoid what happened four years ago; just give it a chance—a try. We can be friends, work our way up, whatever."

He looks indecisive for a moment.

"You'll tell me if I push you too much, if you're gonna . . . hurt yourself?" he asks me.

I nod.

"Yes—I just, I miss my friend is all," I tell him frustrated.

He wraps me in a hug.

"God, I missed you too. B," he says, releasing me and making me look at him. "I can't—I'm not gonna promise that I won't have days where I'm like my old self, 'cause I still do. I can't be around narcotics when shit—stress, pressure—builds up, gets bad, because that's when I want them the most."

I nod. "I know. I'll be there with you—if you'll fucking let me, that is."

He nods. "I'll try not to push you away, but again, I can't promise anything. Promises of an addict doesn't have the best track record." He smirks.

I wince, knowing that he's referring to my book.

* * *

He helped me write a sequel to _Promises of an Addict_ this past year while we got reacquainted; thus giving me permission to use his story. Just like he said before, he does have days where it gets bad and he tries to push me away, but the difference is that I don't let him; he comes to me when the urge to take the pills creeps into his veins. It's nasty watching him go through it while he literally aches for them; he shakes, coughs, paces like there's no tomorrow, can't stay still and can't sleep, sweats—it's like watching someone go through withdrawal allover again. The point though, is that he comes to me now; no matter what I'm doing, he knows that he can bug me and I won't mind—so long as it keeps him healthy and away from poisons and worse, death.

_The Aftermath _is due out next year, and I have a new book series to write, called _Traffic Lights_.


	11. Chapter 11

**What would've happened if B had come back later in the night that she and Emma talked in the bathroom, and she told Edward that she wasn't feeling well.**

* * *

**If this site deletes this story because of this, please know that I appreciate all of you!**

* * *

**To _Anne_ (who reviewed as an anon): Your sweet as hell review brought tears to my eyes! I'm sorry about your childhood, nobody should have to go through that/feel like you have, baby. I can sympathize, though. I wish you the best of luck; thank you for reading and leaving your thoughts. Xoxo ~-Brianna-~**

* * *

I get out of my car and walk in through the backdoor of Edward's house. It's 12:30am, and I left here hours ago after talking to Emma about that 'break', but I couldn't do it; not yet. I need one more night with him. I pause inside the kitchen, hearing the television playing in the living room. Emma walks out of it, frowning.

"What're you doing back?" she asks.

"I need him—jus' one more night," I tell her.

She gives me a disapproving look but says nothing otherwise.

"He upstairs?" I ask.

She nods, and I start up the stairs, and go straight for his room. When I open his door, I see that his light is off, but he has the blue Christmas lights that I hung up as a joke a few years ago on; he's at his desk on the computer. He looks up as I walk in and shut the door; he takes out his earphones and looks at me curiously.

"Hey, sweetheart; I thought you weren't feelin' well?" he asks as he swivels toward me in his chair.

I shrug, trying to hold back my tears, and take a seat at the end of his blue-blanketed bed.

"I wanted to come back," I say, and I know that my voice sounds off.

He nods and tells me to get comfy, so I do. I take my sweat jacket off and kick my shoes elsewhere, and lie back on the bed.

After awhile, I get up and go over to him, putting my arms around his neck, and listen to the music that is playing too loudly.

He takes an earbud out.

"'Sup, baby girl?" he asks.

I shrug even though he can't see it.

"What're you doing?" I ask him, trying to distract myself.

"Reblogging shit," he answers.

I hum in response and watch as he reblogs a picture of a couple in bed, the girl sitting on the guy's face, while the guy's wrists are tied with rope and are above his head.

"You want me to do that to you?" I tease, smirking.

"Sure—but if you think you're gonna be tying me up, you've got another thing comin'," he jokes.

I mindlessly watch as he continues to scroll and like stuff through the site, the _More Than This _album by Trading Yesterday playing from his iTunes. At one point, _May I _comes on and I lose it, the tears cascading like a damn waterfall down my face, and I silently sob, and I shake.

_All that's made me is all worth trading_

_Just to have one moment with you_

_So I will let go with all that I know_

_Knowing that you're here with me_

_For your love is changing me_

_May I hold you as you fall to sleep—_

"Hey, what's wrong?" Edward asks, dropping the other earbud.

He has his neck turned and is looking at me as I cry, covering my mouth so that I don't make any sounds. He stands up and takes hold of my wrist, and I don't fight him when he tries to uncover my mouth.

"Baby girl, what's wrong? What's going on?" He's looking at me so concerned that it just makes me cry even harder.

This time, I let out a noise that sounds like a cat dying. Edward walks us to his bed and sits down, pulling me down onto his lap, and cradles me to his chest, and holds me tightly. I readjust myself and wrap my arms around his neck, trying to be as close to him as possible. The room gets a little darker when his computer goes to its screensaver, and then to sleep. The blue lights are still on, illuminating the room in its calming color.

"Breathe baby, try to breathe; I love you, please," Edward whispers in my ear.

I squeeze my eyes shut and try to do as he says, swallowing thickly and almost choking on my own saliva and snot that's running down the back of my throat.

"I l-lo-ove you t-too," I say through a hoarse whisper.

He slides his hands to my sides and rubs, pulling back a little and I fall forward slightly. I run my palms over my eyes, which are burning from the salty tears that have been pouring out from them for the past ten minutes. He holds my tear-streaked face in his hands, searching my eyes for . . . something. Maybe some sign, some telltale thought of what's going through my mind.

"What happened, baby? You were fine when you left earlier—I mean, you said you weren't feeling good, but that was it. . ." he tells me.

I blink tightly and look away from him. He strokes my cheeks as more tears fall.

"I-I'm . . . I'm depressed, Edward," I tell him, crying again.

He blows out a breath.

"Shit," he says, sounding like the wind has been knocked out of him. "I should've known—should've fucking seen it."

I snort, but it comes out choked-up.

"H-how?" I ask him.

"'Cause," he begins. "I can usually tell when it's comin' on for you. You start to pull away from everyone, and you get major mood swings; you don't eat a lot, sometimes not all day, but I, I didn't see it this time."

I bite my lip, listening to him.

He's blaming himself, and in all honesty, it _is _his fault. He's the one that caused it to return (it returns every month near my period, but never this bad unless stress is involved), but I'm not shocked-surprise that he never saw it coming, not with him being in his own fucked-up world of chaos of drugs, getting high, and fighting with those who care most about him, and pushing people to their limits and over.

"Kiss me?" I ask him, needing him close again.

He leans forward, his arms going on either side of me, and he kisses me. He leans into me pushing me back as I deepen the kiss, and I willingly lay down. His body hovers above me, his lips still attached to mine, our tongues fighting for control over the other. I pull away to catch my breath, panting. I try to get him to put his weight onto me, and he finally does, and it crushes me—it crushes me so fucking good.

"Love me?" I ask, and it borders on pleading, begging.

He pushes up again on his hands to hover again, and I miss him immediately. He looks down at me and smiles gently, but there's worry written in his brown eyes. His right hand caresses my cheek.

"Baby, are you sure?" he asks softly, staring me in the eyes.

"I need to hear you, sweetheart. Tell me that you're sure, and I'll do whatever you want," he tells me just gently.

"I'm sure; I promise," I say sincerely.

His smile is just as soft as his voice has been. I love when he's like this – drug-free, gentle, caring; he reminds me of the person that I used to know. He helps me sit up and then undresses me slowly, taking his time to touch and feel me along the way. I do the same to him, but I leave him in his boxers, only his taking off his white tee shirt.

He spreads my legs apart by my knees and looks me over; it's makes me blush, and when he looks up and notices, he smirks.

"Don't tell me you're shy _now_," he laughs.

I roll my eyes, covering my face with my hands.

"Watch," he tells me as he moves down my body.

I slowly uncover my face and discover that his face is inches away from my pussy—yeah; I have no problem using that word. He gently blows on it and I shiver.

"Fuck," I say, my hips lifting up a little, trying to reach his face.

"Stay still," he says, a smirk playing on his lips.

Yeah right; his telltale smirk let's me know that he already knows that that's next to impossible to do.

He licks a all the way to my clit, staying on my outer lips only. I squirm some, wanting him to finger-fuck me. He spreads me open with his two thumbs, resting on his elbows, and licks me again; I moan and jerk upwards, into his face. He licks a trail up to my clit again, this time staying there and finally, he wraps his lips around it, and suckles. I don't hold back when he hums, still sucking on me, and I involuntarily lift up, shoving myself further into his mouth. He chuckles and let's go of my clip, and goes back to licking me.

"Shit, baby; you're fucking wet," he tells me, adding a finger.

I gulp and move sweaty bangs off my hot forehead, all the while watching my guy go down on me; it fucking turns me on even more.

After a minute of just one, he adds another finger, and pumps them in and out, twisting and turning them upwards, and holy motherfucking shit—he hits _that _spot. He knows my body and the things I like.

He adds a third finger, and I tense a little; he's never added more than two before.

"Relax baby," he whispers, and circles my clip with his other thumb.

I gulp again and say, "E-enough—I w-want you, Eh-E."

He listens and takes off his boxes, then climbs back on the bed. My head is at the foot of the bed, and I don't bother going to the other end; it won't make a damn bit of difference when we're screwing. He climbs onto me and hovers once again; he picks both my legs up and wraps them around his waist and kisses me, reaching down and placing himself at my entrance. He teases me by going halfway in, pulling back out, and repeats this a couple of times. Finally, on the third time he thrusts into me, and I let out an audible gasp, which comes out sounding more like a choke-cough. He leans down and kisses me.

"Shit—you're still fucking tight," he tells me against my mouth.

He begins to thrust and I hold onto him. He's slow at first, going at a gentle pace. Eventually he stops and pulls out, and I pout.

"What—why?" I actually whine.

He doesn't say anything; instead, he just takes my legs from around his waist and gently puts them over his shoulders, and my eyes widen slightly as realization begins to dawn on me.

"Oh, shit," I say, catching on.

He smirks as he swipes his dick up and down my pussy twice, from entrance to clit. I moan and then he slams back into me.

"Fuck—I love you," I say to him, pulling on his hair.

He grunts and groans.

"Fuck—I—fucking—ungh—love you too, baby girl," he tells me through each thrust.

I can't take this position much longer, and tell him that I want to be on top. He lies back on the bed—the correct way, unlike me—and helps me get situated until I'm comfortable; he slides into me easily enough.

"Fuck," he hisses between clenched teeth. "Ride me, baby."

And so I do; I rock back and forth, going up and down as well. He helps by lifting me up when do I the latter part. I rub my clit as I ride him, and he thrusts up into me, and I know that he's reaching his climax, and so am I.

"Shi—fuck," he says, holding onto my upper hips.

He comes undone right after, his body shaking and shuddering as he rides out wave after wave. I get my own soon after, and I feel like I enter another fucking world when I do. I ride it out and when I start coming down, I fall, collapsing on top of him; he doesn't complain though.

He holds me tight for a while, until I tell him that we should clean up and that I need to pee. I didn't do that last time—use the bathroom—and that was a mistake; I got a UTI because of it. I get up on shaky legs and throw on a shirt of Edward's that I see on the ground, and open his door one he's covered as well, and head for the bathroom. I clean up and pee, and then wash my hands and head back for his room to spend one last night with him. I know that come morning, I'm not going to be this happy, this relaxed. I'm going to hurt—like hell.


End file.
